


Home In Your Arms (Short Fic Collection)

by samulett



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samulett/pseuds/samulett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics centered around Sam and Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Injured

**Author's Note:**

> I decided it's about time I share some of these short fics, as my collection has been building up for years now. All were written in response to fic prompts (found mostly on tumblr), word prompts, or music prompts, so there is huge variety in genre - and a whole lot classic fic tropes - but all of them focus on Sam and Dean, whether romantically or platonically. These fics are not polished, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Dean's voice echoed in Sam's head as he resurfaced from the dark of unconsciousness. His head hurt bad, and there was the unmistakable feeling of blood splattered up his side, clinging to his shirt. He opened his eyes, trying to readjust to the dusty, dank cellar he was in. Dean was by his side in an instant, a hand flying out to clasp him tightly around the upper-arm.

“Hey, talk to me,” Dean said, casting a quick glance over his brother's body to size up the injuries. Sam's hand went to his side.

“Bleeding,” Sam said, the word sounding sloppy when it came out of his mouth. He'd definitely hit his head hard.

“Yeah, I can see that much,” Dean said gruffly, and Sam could tell he was anxious.

“Help me up,” Sam said, but Dean batted his hand away.

“No way. You're not going anywhere.” Dean unzipped Sam's hoodie and gently stripped it from his shoulders, then took a closer look at the array of long claws marks that had been left in Sam's side. His t-shirt was shredded from the hem to his arm.

“You look like you got beat-up by a lawn mower,” Dean joked, but there was a shake in his voice. “I'm gonna bandage you up. Keep your head still, alright?” He instructed before racing to one of the duffel bags, abandoned during the attack.

“I'll be okay,” Sam reassured him once he'd returned with the bag. Dean pulled out the bandages and rucked up Sam's shirt, then started to wind the bindings around his waist. The contact stung, but Sam said nothing. Dean worked quickly and efficiently, his deft hands having done this thousands of times before. _A sad truth_ , Sam thought.

“Yeah, you'll be okay,” Dean said, finally. He pinned the end of the bandage, then sat back on his heels to inspect his work. “You know why?”

“Why?” Sam eyed him, his vision no longer blurred around the edges.

Dean flashed him a smile. “'Cause you've got me.”

Sam scoffed, but he knew it was true.


	2. Cold Temperatures & Close Proximity

“We should be in a motel right now. With coffee. And a radiator,” Dean grumbled, his boots crammed up against the driver's seat in front of him. Sam sighed through his nose, and checked his phone again. The blizzard was supposed to last for at least three more hours, and he wasn't getting any reception.

“Gotta suck it up, Dean,” Sam said with a shrug. He glanced out the Impala's window and watched as snow continued to pile up around them. They had clambered into the back seat when the car could no longer struggle across the covered roads, figuring they'd be stranded for a while. Sam had pulled out a blanket that had been folded under the seat--untouched for who knew how long--and flung it across their legs.

“Yeah, well, I don't like it,” Dean continued. He shoved his hand into the bag of M&M's they'd recovered from the dash and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

“Didn't think you were such a wimp when it came to the cold,” Sam said smoothly. Dean made a noise of annoyance and jostled Sam's shoulder with his own.

“I'm gonna freeze my fingers off out here,” He said, flexing the purpling appendages. He pulled the collar of his jacket up around his face and sank down lower in the seat, and Sam was reminded of a frustrated seven-year-old.

“Here,” Sam said and blew hot hair into his cupped hands before reaching out for Dean's. Dean looked at him disbelievingly, his brow furrowed.

“Just do it,” Sam said, exasperated, and Dean offered his hands like he was offering up his dignity. Sam took them between his own and rubbed them together, helping to generate heat.

“Gloves would do a better job,” Sam said, glancing at Dean as their hands started to warm,“But this works, at least.”

Dean grumbled something in response, still annoyed and maybe a little embarrassed, but didn't pull away. They stayed like that for a few minutes, Sam clasping Dean's hands gently and Dean staring stone-faced at the head-rest in front of him. Sam eventually let go, and Dean crammed his hands into his pockets immediately, mumbling a thanks. Sam just shook his head and grabbed his phone to check for reception again. The bright light from its tiny screen lit up the car, and Sam caught the hint of red swept across Dean's cheekbones.

“Hey, uh,” Sam started, trying to suppress his smile as he looked at Dean's face, “Is that from the cold or—,”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, and Sam laughed.


	3. Fake Relationship

“Good morning, gentleman,” the man in the doorway said. He was wearing a grey suit and a bright blue tie, smiling a little too wide for Dean's tastes.

“Morning,” Dean grinned. Next to him, Sam fidgeted.

“Are you two new to the community? We're always happy to see new faces,” The man said. “I'm Andrew. I opened the support group with my husband.”

“Well, I'm Dean. And this is Sam,” Dean shook Andrew's hand, then wound an arm around Sam's waist. Sam cleared his throat with a little difficulty before Dean continued. “We heard a lot of great things about what you're running here and knew we had to get involved.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Andrew said with a genuine smile. “Please, come on in. Our regular members are already in the meeting room. Just down the hall.”

He guided them through the door and then pointed them in the right direction, before slipping into an office to the left.

“That wasn't too bad,” Dean shrugged, finally removing himself from Sam's personal space. Sam sighed heavily.

“That was just the beginning, Dean. We're about to walk into a room full of couples. They're gonna know if something's... _off_ ,” Sam said. He eyed the blue door down the hall with apprehension.

“You're just gonna have to step up your game, then. Stop being so awkward,” Dean said as he glanced back at the office before whipping out the EMF reader for a quick reading.

“It's disturbing how okay with this you are,” Sam grumbled.

“ _You_ were the one who put us on this case. And _you_ said that this support group or whatever was the only connection between the vics, so—,” Dean waved the EMF reader around, but it was silent.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sam said, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

Dean tucked the reader back into his pocket, then turned to Sam with a shrug and a sigh. “It's just the gig, Sam,” he said, and the smirk pulling at his lips made Sam want to punch something.

“Let's just go,” Sam ground out. Dean nodded, and stuck out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Sam took it with another drawn-out sigh.

“Gotta make it believable,” Dean winked.


	4. Photobooth

Cramming two adult males over six feet tall into a tiny, mall photo-booth probably wasn't the best idea, but Dean insisted. For some reason, he thought it would be fun.

“Am I out of the shot?” Sam asked, sinking in the seat in the hopes that the top part of his head couldn't be cropped from the picture.

“I don't know. I've never used one of these things before,” Dean said as he routed through his pockets for a few dollars. He had one leg thrown over Sam's, and was just barely staying on the edge of the seat. It wasn't the most comfortable he'd ever been, but he wasn't going to back out now that they'd spent about five full minutes trying to clamber in.

“Alright, blue steel first,” Dean said as he shoved the first dollar into the slot, “Then look happy.”

“You want me to look happy in here?” Sam asked, trying to blow his bangs out of his eyes.

“Then angry, then go nuts,” Dean hit the start button. The tiny screen lit up, and began counting down from five. Each time the number hit one, the light in front of them flashed brightly. When the screen finally read “All done!” in flashing, rainbow colours, they struggled to free themselves from one another and escaped the tiny space.

“Even if my head's cut off, we're not doing that again,” Sam said, watching as the skinny strip of photos dropped from the slot. Dean snatched them up, and Sam leaned over his shoulder to look.

In the first, Dean was taking up most of the frame, his blue steel covering up Sam's attempt at one almost completely. Sam didn't complain, so Dean figured he wasn't too bothered. In the second, Dean was grinning like an idiot, and Sam had a lopsided smile on, his eyebrows drawn together like he was in pain. Dean poked at the picture with his finger.

“You look like a constipated puppy,” Dean pointed out, and Sam frowned.

“Do not,” He mumbled.

The third picture featured both of them looking like they were about to launch themselves at the camera in a rage, teeth bared and eyes wild.

“I like the third one,” Dean said, obviously pleased.

The last photo was a mess of blurred shapes, where Dean—much to Sam's surprise and displeasure—had darted across to Sam and placed a sloppy, puckered-lip kiss on his cheek, which had sent him sprawling and sputtering away. Sam's arms were flailing in the picture, and Dean was obviously in the middle of laughing his head off, even if he was a little fuzzy.

“You ruined the last one,” Sam said grouchily and Dean turned to smirk up at him.

“Oh, shut up, I like that one,” Dean smirked. “Which one do you want for the inside of your wallet?”

“The last one,” Sam said immediately.


	5. Discovering Fanfiction

“Dude, you have to look at this,” Sam said. He was sitting at the motel's small round table, his laptop in front of him. Dean looked up from where he was stretched out on the bed, surrounded by piles of Chuck's “Supernatural” books.

“What now?” He asked, knowing this couldn't be good.

“Just-- come here,” Sam said and pushed the laptop towards his brother. Dean sauntered over to the table and slid into the empty chair. He pulled the laptop towards him and dropped his chin into his hand. The window Sam had shown him before was still open; the Supernatural Fan Forums were laid out in front of him. Apparently, the fans were discussing and sharing their favourite fanfictions.

“Are these the slash fans again?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said simply. “I just thought you might be interested to know that people write about you. And me. Apparently, there's tons of these things.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, staring at the links. “Did you read any?”

“What? No,” Sam said quickly, affronted. “I'm curious but I'm not that curious.”

“Well, I am,” Dean said with a smirk and clicked on the first link he saw. It was apparently called “Forbidden Love.”

“Dean, don't,” Sam warned but Dean was already scrolling through the first few paragraphs, more than happy to make Sam uncomfortable.

“' _Sam couldn't take his eyes off Dean. His black shirt stretched over the taut muscles of his back as he continued to dig up the old grave_ ,'” Dean read aloud, voice sultry. Sam's brow furrowed.

“Seriously?” Sam made a swipe for the laptop, but Dean lifted it away and retreated to the bed. Sam watched in horror as Dean continued to scroll down the page, his brother's eyes widening. Dean whistled.

“Wow, Sammy, this is getting intense,” Dean said.

“Why do I show you anything?” Sam grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Well, apparently, it's because I'm ' _completely irresistible_ ,'” Dean purred and then burst into laughter. He was cut short a minute later when Sam tossed a shoe at his face.


	6. Waking Up with Kisses

“Up and at 'em, Sam,” Dean said when he emerged from the bathroom. He'd eaten breakfast, showered and shaved, and still, Sam refused to get up. He was snoring softly.

“Come on, man, it's time to move. We got a long drive ahead of us. You can sleep in the car,” Dean said as he folded up his clothes from the day before and shoved them into his duffel bag. Sam still didn't budge, so Dean grabbed a piece of paper from the desk, balled it up, and tossed it at Sam's head. It smacked him in the forehead—a perfect bull's-eye—but there was still no reaction.

“Really?” Dean grumbled and stalked over to the bed. He nudged Sam's knee, then shook his shoulder. Sam stayed tucked in his bundle of blankets, silent.

“Alright, fine,” Dean said, as if his brother could hear him. He bent over Sam, bracing himself with a hand on the pillow, and pressed a hard kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam stirred immediately. He blinked his eyes open, staring in confusion at Dean's too-close face.

“W-what the hell?” Sam sputtered, hand flying up to touch his lips, “You—y—you're not supposed to go kissing people when they're asleep, Dean! You could at least wait 'til I'm awake.”

"Eh,” Dean shrugged, pleased to see Sam's cheeks flushing with both frustration and embarrassment. “It did the trick.”


	7. Unwanted Flirter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note that this one might have some uncomfortable content related to sexual harassment.

They were sitting in a lively bar. Music was blaring, and people were dancing wildly with drinks in their hands. They were just discussing the details of their latest case when they were joined by a six foot man with golden hair and a jawline that could cut glass. He sidled up to where they were enjoying their drinks at the counter and sat down on the stool next to Sam, flashing a white smile.

“Evening,” He said, tipping his hat.

“Evening,” Sam and Dean said in unison, Dean's eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Haven't seen you around before. You from out of town?” The man asked, eyeing Sam.

“Uh, yeah, Kansas, actually,” Sam replied. Dean frowned.

“I'm Tate,” He continued, motioning to the bartender to grab him some whiskey. “And you are?”

“I'm Sam. This is Dean,” Sam jabbed a thumb at Dean, who offered a solitary wave and a warning look. Tate didn't seem to notice.

“So, Sam. Don't suppose you dance, do you?” He asked. He turned in his seat to get a better look at Sam's face, leaning his back against the counter. He was wearing a smile that made Dean feel like his blood was boiling. Sam laughed light-heartedly.

“Not really,” Sam shrugged. “I think I'd just embarrass myself.”

“Aw, that's a shame,” Tate said, swirling the ice in his glass. “I'm sure I could give you a few pointers. Might be fun. Wanna give it a try?”

Sam offered an apologetic smile, and Dean stared in horror at how _well_ Sam was taking this.

“Excuse me, cowboy, but he's not interested,” Dean interjected. Tate passed an annoyed look over Dean before returning his gaze to Sam, all smiles again.

“You sure?” He asked, and Sam jumped a little when Tate's left hand landed lightly on Sam's thigh.

“Uh—,” Sam started, “I think I'd rather just—,”

Tate leaned in, mouth about ten inches closer to Sam's ear than Dean thought it should ever be.

“Come on. I'll show you a good time, Sammy,” Tate breathed, and Dean was out of his seat and slamming his fist into Tate's face before Sam could even start to form the word 'no.'

“Dean!” Sam leaped from his seat and yanked Dean back by the jacket. Tate rolled onto all fours and began to stagger to his feet, a string of curses flying.

“I was handling it,” Sam said, glancing at the rather annoyed-looking bartender. He attempted an apologetic smile as he pulled out a wad of bills and slapped it on the counter. He started to tug Dean toward the door, ignoring his brother's cries of protest and trying to avoid the eyes of every other person in the bar.

“He was about three moves away from having a hand down your pants, Sam! That's not what I call handling it,” Dean fumed, fighting against Sam's attempts to steer him outside. Tate had finally struggled to his feet, his nose angled to the left and bleeding.

“Sorry,” Sam called as he nudged the door open with his foot. “Won't happen again.”

“It sure as hell _won't_! You ever touch him again and I swear, I'll—,”

Sam slammed the door behind them.


	8. Won't Shut Up Until Kissed

Dean wouldn't shut up.

They'd been driving for eight hours straight, and Dean was in one of his moods where he wanted to listen to the loudest music he had and sing along to it even louder. Sam was trying to connect the dots on a new case they were headed towards, but the fact that it felt like his eardrums were bleeding wasn't exactly helping.

“Do you think we could take a break from the music?” Sam asked after Dean prodded him in the side and told him to grab another tape.

“Take a break? No way. This stuff is what keeps me sane,” Dean said, reaching behind Sam's seat to grab for the cardboard box that held his ancient music collection. The Impala veered a little to the left, but thankfully, they seemed to be the one car on the highway for miles.

“It's just—getting a little much. I can't think straight,” Sam frowned as Dean popped Metallica into the player.

“I didn't know thinking _straight_ was your thing, if you know what I mean,” Dean grinned and Sam countered with an eye roll. The first song started to blare, and Sam defiantly turned it down.

“Even just quieter,” Sam said, but Dean didn't seem impressed.

“Only way we're gonna shut off the music is if you can do something for me,” Dean said. Sam sighed through his nose, knowing this wasn't going to be good. He propped his elbow on the car door and dropped his head into his hand. He stared at Dean, trying to guess what was going to come out of his mouth.

“What?” He asked cautiously.

“You've gotta kiss me,” Dean said.

“What? Dean, come on,” Sam pressed his fingers to his eyes, shaking his head. “Seriously?”

“What's wrong, Sam? You kissed me yesterday. Twice, I think,” Dean said thoughtfully, counting on his fingers. Sam sputtered and stared loathingly out at the concrete while Dean chuckled.

“That's different,” Sam said, finally. “We're not gonna bargain with kisses. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean shrugged, “But the terms still stand. So, pucker up or I'm gonna belt it all the way to Utah.”

Sam sat and fumed in silence for a moment. It wasn't that kissing Dean was a bad thing--the exact opposite, really; Sam just wished he wouldn't be an ass about it. Dean cranked the volume and started singing, louder than before, and Sam stared at him, brow furrowed. Dean could be an okay singer when he wanted to, but right now, he didn't want to.

“Okay, fine, you jerk,” Sam grumbled, and stretched across the distance between them to plant a kiss on Dean's cheek. Dean, however, had other ideas, and turned his head at the last moment. Their mouths collided a little roughly, but Sam allowed the mess of a kiss to continue for about four seconds, 'cause _goddamn_ , kissing Dean just didn't get old. Again, the car swerved, and Sam pulled hastily away. There was a grin on Dean's face about half a second later.

“You just fell for the oldest one in the book,” Dean said pleasantly, shutting off the music.

“I hate you. And that was a crap kiss,” Sam griped, trying to wipe his smile away with his sleeve.

“You love me,” Dean said, “And you liked it.”


End file.
